


Call girl

by rhosyndu



Category: British Comedy RPF
Genre: BDSM overtones, M/M, Spanking, contains one slur, cross-dressing, look it's an id scratch we're not here to ask questions, old LJ fic, which is mild for frankie boyle lbqh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-28 04:59:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19805242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhosyndu/pseuds/rhosyndu
Summary: David wears pretty clothes. Frankie plays rough.





	Call girl

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ in September 2008 for the comedy porn kink meme.

  
The razor glides up, drawing away foam and leaving behind shining white skin, smooth and glistening. Steam from the bath fogs up the windows and mirrors and makes his fringe damp enough that he has to push it back from his eyes, though it almost instantly falls back again. He sluices the razor clean in the water and returns it to the ankle, hair crackling off the blade as it’s cut.   
  
There’s moisturiser to follow and talc after that to help the stockings roll on; for, if you’re going to do a thing, you’ve got to do it properly.  
  
~  
  
Gently winding the silk up his leg gives him a shiver, and a second one comes unexpected when he fastens the garter belt and the fabric slides against him ever so minutely. David pauses a moment, then moves again, carefully testing the feeling of it. Even wiggling his toes feels oddly sensual and he spends a good minute doing just that; he stops when he feels the familiar heat of arousal start to make a more physical presence.   
  
~  
  
An hour to go and he’s not finished his makeup.   
  
Dark lipstick - liner first so the edges are properly defined. Pucker and pout to check. Is that okay? Looks alright, maybe, maybe not. Blusher and powder sparingly - just under the cheekbones to make them more noticeable.   
  
Then contacts in so he can see what he’s doing with his eyes: the liquid eye pen’s tricky to get right, but the pencil looks too weak, rubs off too soon. _Balls_. Mascara? Perhaps a little - careful, not too thick.  
  
~   
  
Frankie drums his fingers on the arm rest and wants a cigarette. He was fine this afternoon, and fine earlier this evening, and fine right up until seven o’clock, when the knowledge that it would soon be eight suddenly leapt out on him and he had to raid the cupboard under the sink for the bottle of whisky he hadn’t, honest, stashed at the back behind the sponges and cleaning fluids. Not that there was anyone to hide it from any more. Anyway.  
  
Two tumblers later the bell rings: the clock says it’s ten minutes to, and that the sod’s early. It’s so very typical of David when he’s himself, and Frankie doesn’t know if that’s disconcerting or, or, or _what_. Fuck it.  
  
He opens the front door and ushers the waiting brunette into the house; not that he cares what the neighbours think. Stupid curtain-twitching bastards. They’d already talked about him and the divorce plenty, so they’d fucking love it if it looked like he was having tranny hookers come to the door. There’s the faint urge to make David blow him on the doorstep as a massive fuck-off to the lot of them, but Frankie knows himself and knows how far he can push it.   
  
“Go into the living room: second door on the right.”  
  
High heels _click-click-click_ off the laminate floorboards and then fall silent on the thick shag of the living room carpet. Out of sight, Frankie leans his head against the cool wall; a deep breath in that fails to clear his head, and he’s as ready as he’ll ever be. He swears for good measure and strides into the living room.  
  
Standing uncertainly near the desk David looks as nervous as a first time whore, his painted on face a see-through lie.  
  
“Do--” Frankie coughs, and starts again, voice its usual confident timbre: “Do you have a name tonight, or shall I give you one?”   
  
Quite surprised, David pauses; one hand absently smooths down the skirt of the dress as he thinks. “I’ve always, uh, quite liked ‘Alice’.”  
  
“Shame that whores don’t get to have names then, isn’t it?”  
  
Crimson lips part to retort, but before David says anything Frankie cuts across him: “ _Shut_ up.” David’s mouth snaps shut and he nods, eyes lowered. Frankie stalks towards him and he leans back; perhaps unconsciously, perhaps not.   
  
“Move again and you’ll regret it,” Frankie bites out, the whisky sharpening his voice. The words ring loud in the room for a beat. Then he starts to walk around David slowly, inspecting him like he’s a second hand car. “Are these stockings or tights?”  
  
“Stockings.”  
  
Frankie’s fingers trail from the knee up, over the sheer silk, until they brush against the hem of the dress where it hangs mid thigh. “Hmm,” he sneers. “Panties or a thong?”  
  
“Neither.”  
  
“Neither?” he echoes. “I’ll have to check that.” He does.   
  
With ghosting fingers he discovers: the edge of a satin slip; the smooth silk and then lace of the stockings; the gauzy material of the belt and the cord of the suspenders. And in between: nothing but skin.   
  
From where he stands behind, Frankie traces David’s inner thigh with his thumbnail, brushing against his stiffening cock almost carelessly. Haunting and light. Before he removes his hand he curls his fingers back so they don’t _quite_ touch against the cheeks of David’s arse; the insinuation makes David tremble, oh-so slightly.  
  
“Good,” Frankie’s breath ghosts against the rim of David’s ear, sending tickling strands of the wig to flutter momentarily against his cheek. “I think you’ll do.”   
  
He brings his hand down hard on David’s arse, the fabric of the dress muffling the sound of the slap but not the sting. David screws the noise tight inside himself so it doesn’t escape, though his eyes betray the wince.  
  
Frankie seats himself in his chair again, then leans back and, with a casual hand, picks up his drink. With unwavering eyes he watches David over the rim of the glass. “Come here.”  
  
David’s eyes are always large, and always dark, but right now his pupils are blown so wide they don’t look brown anymore but black; black, and pained, and hungry.  
  
“On your knees.”  
  
Sinking down unsteadily, David obeys.  
  
Two lackadaisical fingers beckon him forward off his haunches, “Undo my trousers,” Frankie says carelessly, and as David does as he’s told Frankie wanders his fingers down the neckline of the dress. There’s no hair on his chest, and Frankie guesses he must have shaved that too. He dips down to find a nipple, circles the tender skin-- and pinches it. Hard. David flinches quite wonderfully while trying not to.   
  
“Touch me,” Frankie orders. “But.” An upraised finger in warning. “Just with your mouth.” He puts one hand on the back of David’s head and pushes him towards his half hard cock; a moment of hesitation, then David gets the idea and, parting the cotton of Frankie’s boxers, wraps his mouth around his prick. His cheeks hollow perfectly as he sucks, taking as much of Frankie into his mouth as he’s able; deep, and deeper, ‘til his dick is almost tapping the back of his throat.   
  
Normally David is a control freak, but he lets Frankie set the rhythm with the hand on the back of his head, pushing him to go faster, further; he does his damnedest to keep up, licking and sucking as best he can. Letting Frankie fuck his face.   
  
There’s something freeing in giving up control, in being used like this: thought skitters away, leaving nothing but sensation. Rough hands on his head, smooth skin on his tongue, bitterness and desperation tinting it all: right now, the world could end and it would be nothing more than background noise.   
  
David moans in his throat like a lost soul coming home and it almost tips Frankie’s world into so much static: but he manages to hold himself together - manages to seize David by the sides of his head and wrench him back.   
  
Startled, David’s eyes snap open. His parted lips work but fail to even squeak a protest.  
  
Breathing heavily through his nose, Frankie holds him there fast; the wig has slipped into David’s eyes and he blinks futilely.   
  
“Not like that,” Frankie growls, his voice breaking into a cough. David tries to nod, but can’t.   
  
A beat, then Frankie releases him with a shove. “Over to the desk.” One high heel skitters badly on the shiny floor, and David almost twists an ankle as he hurries to comply.  
  
“Face it. Hands on it. Head down.”  
  
There’s a not quite silence behind David, the sounds too quiet for him to identify. Something soft and cloth like? And a clink of something metallic?  
  
“Head _down_ I said!” Frankie pushes David’s head down and yanks the dress up: David’s expecting a smack on his arse, not the hard _crack!_ of stiff leather against his skin that sends fire burning along his nerves and prickling penance in its wake. “One,” says Frankie calmly, and adjusts his grip on the looped belt.  
  
_Crack!_ "Two."  
  
The second rush of pain is close on the heels of the first, and Frankie waits just long enough for the immediate heat to cool and the sting to bloom when he brings on the third. And the fourth. And the fifth. Each counted steadily out. Each lingering under the skin like some dark kiss.  
  
_Crack!_ "Six."  
  
A shuddering exhalation escapes David, his chest heaving. From behind him Frankie can see drops of pre-come as they start to roll down his ignored erection. He raises the belt again. And again. And again.  
  
_Crack!_ "Thirteen."  
  
Frankie can’t take his eyes off his mark on David’s skin. _Mine_. The stripes left by the hard leather stand livid red on white, trembling flanks; hard to say if the shoes or the tension thrumming through David are more to blame for it. Frankie adds another stripe. And another. And another.  
  
_Crack!_ "Nineteen."  
  
It’s the barest muffled whisper when it comes, and Frankie almost doesn’t catch it:-  
  
“...please.”   
  
He hesitates, one stroke short of an even score. “You want me to stop?” Frankie says it half haughtily, suddenly unsure but trying not to spoil the illusion if he’s misunderstood the request. It could be part of the game - they’d, foolishly it suddenly seems, not considered safe words when they’d agreed to this.   
  
“Please-” David’s voice hitches, “--please fuck me. Hard as you like, but _please_.”  
  
Frankie is surprised to see a tremble in his own fingers as he rips open the lube packet and slicks himself up; he’s hard, so hard, and David, when he pushes himself inside, is so _tight_.  
  
Dizzying heat. Skin slapping on skin. Sweat prickles on Frankie’s forehead and makes his glasses slide down his nose; he tries to push them back up but they slide back down again almost immediately. Fingers dig into flesh hard enough to bruise, squeezing skin to white while the bitter tang of sweat underneath cloying perfume floats into the air around them. Little sounds escape David, even as he bites his lip to keep them in.   
  
So much; too much.  
  
Frankie’s first, but he lunges to grab David’s cock as the release stutters through his body; he makes the barest connection with his fingertips, but it’s enough. David makes a noise like a sob, and comes a messy splatter of white.  
  
~  
  
Afterwards, when the world sneaks back in, they avoid each other’s eyes and David turns down Frankie’s offer of a shower. Though he lets Frankie insist on driving him home.


End file.
